I’ve written a few short screenplays to help with visuals and dialogue. Here is my latest work:
Territory Lines
FADE IN:
EXT. FRANK’S RANCH – BACKYARD DAWN
Thin light bleeds across scrubland and distant mesas. A small ranch house sits weathered but tidy, chicken coop to one side.
HARLEY MORRISON (75), face like worn leather, emerges from the back door. Coffee mug in hand. He breathes in the morning, then freezes.
White and brown feathers drift across the dirt like snow.
HARLEY
(under his breath)
Son of a bitch.
He sets down his mug hard on the porch rail. Follows the trail of feathers to the coop.
One section of chicken wire curls inward. More feathers cling to the metal diamonds. Harley crouches and examines the damage.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Big one. Damn cats getting bolder.
He counts his chickens through the wire. All present, but huddles in the far corner.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Lucky girls. This time.
Harley stands with a grunt. Heads toward the toolshed. At the coop’s corner, partially hidden by sagebrush, a tuft of tawny fur trembles on a broken wire.
Harley doesn’t notice.
He returns with wire cutters and a roll of heavier gauge wire. Works methodically, muttering.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Forty years. Forty years of chickens and I’m still fighting the same damn fight.
A crow watches from a fence post. Harley flicks a pebble at it.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Get. Nothing here for you.
The crow caws but doesn’t move. Harley shakes his head, then returns to his repair.
In the distance, morning shadows retreat across the desert. Something moves between the junipers.
Then stillness.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS
Harley enters through the back door stomping dust off his boots. The kitchen is clean but outdated with avocado appliances, faded curtains, a 1980s wall calendar still hanging by the phone.
He pours fresh coffee and glances out the window at his repaired coop.
The RATTLE of dry dog food hitting metal echoes from the porch.
Harley freezes. Sets down his mug carefully.
EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS
Harley eases the screen door open. An old dog bowl sits overturned on the porch boards, kibble scattered.
HARLEY
Maggie?
Silence.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
That dog’s been dead two months, you old fool.
He kneels to gather the spilled food. Pauses. Fresh scratch marks score the wooden floor leading under the porch.
Harley leans down, peers in the darkness beneath the boards.
He straightens up slowly. Notices the dog food bag has been dragged from its usual spot by the door.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
(louder)
If you’re under there, you best move on. This ain’t no shelter.
Nothing.
Harley heads inside and returns with a broom. Bangs the handle against the porch boards.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Go on! Git!
A low growl rises from beneath. Not aggressive – pained.
Harley stops banging. Crouches again, squints harder into the shadows.
Two amber eyes catch the morning light.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Well, hell.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – MOMENTS LATER
Harley stands at the window, phone in hand. Dials. Waits.
Through the glass, he can see the dark gap beneath the porch.
HARLEY
(into phone)
Yeah, Animal Control? Got a situation…Bobcat, I think. Under my porch.
Pause. Harley’s jaw tightens.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Three days? No, I can’t wait three days. I got chickens.
He listens and grows frustrated.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Look, if you can’t–fine. I’ll handle it myself.
He hangs up. Stares at the porch. Opens a cabinet, revealing a rifle on wall mounts. His hand hovers then drops.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Least see what I’m dealing with.
EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – AFTERNOON
Harley approaches with a flashlight and a long, green-handled rake. He’s changed into heavier boots and work gloves.
He crouches far from the gap and shines the light under.
Using the rake, Harley gently probes the darkness. The handle hits something soft.
A HISS. A flash of movement. The bobcat’s face emerges briefly. A bloodies ear. Matted fur. Female. She retreats deeper.
Harley sits back on his heels.
HARLEY
You’re hurt bad, aren’t you?
Thunder rumbles in the distance. Dark clouds mass over the mesas.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Storm coming. Hell of a time to pick my porch.
He stands, decision made. Heads to the kitchen and returns with the dog bowl filled with water. Sets it at the edge of the porch gap.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Don’t mean you can stay.
The first drops of rain begin to fall.
EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – NIGHT
Rain pounds the tin roof. Lightning illuminates the yard in stark flashes.
Through the kitchen window, we see Harley at his table, eating alone. He glances out frequently.
EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS
The water bowl is empty. Harley opens the door, refills it.
As he sets it down, he notices something in the mud.
Paw prints. Leading from under the porch to the bowl and back.
HARLEY
Least you’re drinking.
Another flash of lightning. In the brief illumination, the bobcat is visible. She is pressed against the far corner under the porch, eyes reflecting the light.
Her body is tense, ears flat. But she doesn’t retreat deeper.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
We’re both too old for this dance, aren’t we?
He goes inside.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – CONTINUOUS
Harley opens the refrigerator. Leftover pot roast on a plate. He considers, the cuts off a piece.
EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS
Harley emerges and sets the meat near the water bowl. The bobcat watches from the shadows.
HARLEY
One time. Just tonight. Storm’s got to be hell on that ear.
He turns to go, then stops.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
My wife used to feed every stray that showed up. Said hungry is hungry, doesn’t matter the species.
The bobcat’s eyes follow him as he goes inside.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – LATER
Harley washes dishes. Through the window, the meat is gone.
The bobcat has moved slightly forward – just her face visible at the porch edge, rain dripping off her whiskers.
Their eyes meet through glass. She doesn’t look away.
Harley doesn’t either.
EXT. HARLEY’S RANCH – DAWN
The storm has passed. Puddles reflect the early sky. Harley emerges with his coffee. He checks the coop first. The chickens are already scratching in the mud.
He walks to the porch. The meat plate is licked clean. Fresh tracks circle the porch.
Harley bends down and peers under. The bobcat is still there, but her posture has changed. Less coiled. Her injured ear is crusty with dried blood, but the swelling looks reduced
HARLEY
Still here, huh?
The bobcat blinks slowly. Doesn’t retreat.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – DAY
Harley cuts up more pot roast, smaller pieces this time. Pauses as a framed photo on the counter. It’s of him and a woman, both younger, smiling at some long-ago event.
HARLEY
(to photo)
Don’t start, Helen. It’s only temporary.
EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS
Harley sets the plate down, but closer to the house this time. Only three feet from the porch gap.
He settles into his rocking chair with a newspaper. Pretends to read.
The bobcat emerges partially – head and shoulders only. Sniffs the air. Her eyes dart between the meat and Harley.
HARLEY
(not looking up)
Go on. Not gonna bite you.
She stretches forward, grabs a piece, retreats. Then another. On the third attempt, she doesn’t pull back as far.
They exist in the same space – predator and rancher, six feet apart.
A truck rumbles past on the distant road. The bobcat tenses. Harley glances over his paper.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Helen used to know everyone’s schedule. Said it was like watching a clock tick living out here.
The bobcat finishes the meat. Sits back on her haunches, begins grooming her good ear.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
That’s new. Making yourself at home?
She pauses mid-lick, meets his eyes. Then continues grooming, deliberate and unhurried.
Harley almost smiles.
INT. HARLEY’S LIVING ROOM – EVENING
Harley sits in his armchair, TV playing a rerun he’s not watching. He glances toward the kitchen window.
Gets up, walks over. The porch light illuminates the empty food plate. No sign of the bobcat.
HARLEY
Good. Back where you belong.
But he doesn’t move from the window.
EXT. HARLEY’S RANCH – NIGHT
The moon is bright. The desert is alive with sounds – crickets, distant coyotes.
Something moves near the chicken coop.
INT. HARLEY’S BEDROOM – CONTINUOUS
Harley bolts upright in bed. Grabs the rifle form the wall and heads for the door.
EXT. HARLEY’S BACKYARD – CONTINUOUS
Harley emerges, rifle ready. Sees a shape by the coop but it’s facing away from the chickens, crouched low.
A second shape slinks through the sagebrush. Coyote. Lean and bold, it approaches the coop.
The bobcat rises from its haunches, back arched. A low growl rumbles from her chest.
The coyote stops, assesses. The chickens are right there, but so is the bobcat.
Harley watches, rifle lowered.
The bobcat steps forward, places herself between the coyote and the coop. Her injured ear is pinned back, but she stands firm.
The coyote circles, looking for an opening. The bobcat pivots, matching its movement.
HARLEY
(whispered)
I’ll be damned.
The standoff stretches. Finally, the coyote backs away and melts in the darkness.
The bobcat remains on guard until the threat is gone. Then, she limps back toward the porch.
She pauses and looks at Harley.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Yeah, I saw. Don’t let it go to your head.
She disappears under the porch.
Harley stands there a moment longer processing what he’s witnessed.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – MOMENTS LATER
Harley puts the rifle away. Pulls out the pot roast and cuts a generous portion.
HARLEY
(to himself)
Guard duty deserves hazard pay.
EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – MORNING
Harley sets down a plate with raw chicken scraps closer to his chair this time. The bobcat emerges fully from under the porch, still limping but moving better.
She eats while he drinks his coffee. The space between them has shrunk to four feet.
HARLEY
That ear’s looking better. You’ll be moving on soon.
The bobcat pauses eating and looks directly at him. Her gaze is steady, evaluating.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
What? It’s true. You’re wild. This ain’t… natural.
She returns to eating. Harley notices she’s positioned to watch both him and the yard, protective but not fearful.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – DAY
Harley’s on the phone watching through the window as the bobcat suns herself on the porch edge.
HARLEY
(into the phone)
Pete, you still got that chicken wire? … Yeah, the heavy gauge… Coyotes been bold lately.
The bobcat stretches and reveals her injured side. The wounds are healing but still visible.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
No, haven’t lost any birds. Just being careful
EXT. HARLEY’S PROPERTY LINE – SUNSET
Harley walks his fence line, checking for breaks. The bobcat follows at a distance keeping pace but staying wild.
They reach a spot where the fence meets a dry wash. Fresh coyote tracks in the sand.
HARLEY
See that? They’re testing boundaries.
The bobcat sniffs the tracks and her hackles rise slightly. She sprays a nearby bush marking her territory.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
That’s your answer, huh? Make it yours?
A crow caws overhead. The bobcat looks up, then at Harley.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Don’t ask me. I’m just the guy who feeds you.
They walk back toward the house as shadows lengthen. Two solitary figures maintaining their distance but moving in the same direction.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – NIGHT
Harley reads at the table. Through the window, the bobcat is visible on the porch, grooming.
The phone rings. Harley lets it ring three times before answering.
HARLEY
Yeah?… No, Jim, haven’t seen any bobcats… Why?
His expression changes as he listens.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Shot one? Where?… That’s two miles west. Male?… Right. Thanks for letting me know.
He hangs up. Looks out at the bobcat. She’s stopped grooming, alert, as if sensing his tension.
EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – NIGHT
Harley steps out quietly. The bobcat watches from her usual spot.
HARLEY
Rancher over at Miller’s Creek shot a male bobcat. Probably your mate.
The bobcat’s ear twitches. She stands, stretches, but doesn’t approach.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
Territory’s gonna shift now. Others will move in.
She walks to the porch edge, scans the darkness beyond. Her tail flicks once.
HARLEY
(CONT’D)
You can’t stay here forever. We both know that.
But even as he says it, his voice lacks conviction.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – MORNING
Harley prepares two plates now – one with meat scraps, one with his own breakfast. He takes both outside.
EXT. HARLEY’S PORCH – CONTINUOUS
He sets the bobcat’s plate in its usual spot, then sits with his own food. They eat together in silence.
A pickup truck approaches on the ranch road. The bobcat tenses.
HARLEY
Easy. That’s just Pete again.
The truck slows and stops at Harley’s gate. PETE (60s) leans out the window.
PETE
Harley! You still need that wire?
HARLEY
Leave it by the gate. I’ll get it later.
Pete squints at the porch and notices the bobcat.
PETE
Jesus, Harley. Is that…?
HARLEY
She’s just passing through.
PETE
Passing through? She’s eating off a plate!
The bobcat has partially retreated under the porch with only her head visible.
HARLEY
Pete, just leave the wire.
PETE
You know what happened at Miller’s Creek? These cats are getting too comfortable around people.
HARLEY
This one’s different.
PETE
They’re all different until they ain’t. You’re playing with fire.
Pete shakes his head, drops the wire roll by the gate then drives off.
Harley looks at the bobcat. She’s watching the truck disappear.
HARLEY
He’s not wrong. But he’s not right either.
She emerges again, cautious but not running. Returns to her food.
EXT. HARLEY’S RANCH – DAWN – ONE WEEK LATER
The bobcat’s ear has healed to a scarred but functional state. She moves without limping now, patrols the property edges at dawn.
Harley watches from the porch as she investigates fresh coyote tracks near the coop.
HARLEY
You’re ready. Time to go back to your world.
She looks back at him then continues her patrol.
INT. HARLEY’S KITCHEN – DAY
Harley doesn’t prepare the extra plate. He eats alone, glancing occasionally at the empty spot where she usually waits.
Another lovely story. I’m into bobcats a lot lately. I’m glad I found your story. Thank you!